Yet some there be that by due steps aspire
To lay their just hands on that golden key
That opes the palace of eternity:
To such my errand is.

In these words of the Attendant Spirit in Comus we seem to hear
Milton speaking to his readers. To such as regard poetry as the means of an
hour's pleasant recreation he brings no message; his "errand" is to those
who, like Sidney, regard poetry as the handmaiden of virtue, or, like
Aristotle, as the highest form of human history.

Life

Milton was born in London (1608) at a time when Shakespeare
and his fellow dramatists were in their glory. He grew up in a home
where the delights of poetry and music were added to the moral
discipline of the Puritan. Before he was twelve years old he had
formed the habit of studying far into the night; and his field
included not only Greek, Latin, Hebrew and modern European
literatures, but mathematics also, and science and theology and
music. His parents had devoted him in infancy to noble ends, and he
joyously accepted their dedication, saying, "He who would not be
frustrate of his hope to write well ... ought himself to be a true
poem, that is, a composition and pattern of the best and
honorablest things."

Milton at Horton

From St. Paul's school Milton went to Christ's College, Cambridge,
took his master's degree, wrote a few poems in Latin, Italian and
English, and formed a plan for a great epic, "a poem that England
would not willingly let die." Then he retired to his father's
country-place at Horton, and for six years gave himself up to
music, to untutored study, and to that formal pleasure in nature
which is reflected in his work. Five short poems were the only
literary result of this retirement, but these were the most perfect
of their kind that England had thus far produced.

Milton's next step, intended like all others to cultivate his
talent, took him to the Continent. For fifteen months he traveled
through France and Italy, and was about to visit Greece when,
hearing of the struggle between king and Parliament, he set his
face towards England again. "For I thought it base," he said, "to
be traveling at my ease for culture when my countrymen at home were
fighting for liberty."

Home Life

To find himself, or to find the service to which he could devote
his great learning, seems to have been Milton's object after his
return to London (1639). While he waited he began to educate his
nephews, and enlarged this work until he had a small private
school, in which he tested some of the theories that appeared later
in his Tractate on Education. Also he married, in haste it
seems, and with deplorable consequences. His wife, Mary Powell, the
daughter of a Cavalier, was a pleasure-loving young woman, and
after a brief experience of Puritan discipline she wearied of it
and went home. She has been amply criticized for her desertion, but
Milton's house must have been rather chilly for any ordinary human
being to find comfort in. To him woman seemed to have been made for
obedience, and man for rebellion; his toplofty doctrine of
masculine superiority found expression in a line regarding Adam and
Eve, "He for God only, she for God in him,"--an old delusion, which
had been seriously disturbed by the first woman.

Period of Controversy

For a period of near twenty years Milton wrote but little poetry,
his time being occupied with controversies that were then waged
even more fiercely in the press than in the field. It was after the
execution of King Charles (1649), when England was stunned and all
Europe aghast at the Puritans' daring, that he published his
Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, the argument of which was,
that magistrates and people are equally subject to the law, and
that the divine right of kings to rule is as nothing beside the
divine right of the people to defend their liberties. That argument
established Milton's position as the literary champion of
democracy. He was chosen Secretary of the Commonwealth, his duties
being to prepare the Latin correspondence with foreign countries,
and to confound all arguments of the Royalists. During the next
decade Milton's pen and Cromwell's sword were the two outward
bulwarks of Puritanism, and one was quite as ready and almost as
potent as the other.

His Blindness

It was while Milton was thus occupied that he lost his eyesight,
"his last sacrifice on the altar of English liberty." His famous
"Sonnet on his Blindness" is a lament not for his lost sight but
for his lost talent; for while serving the Commonwealth he must
abandon the dream of a great poem that he had cherished all his
life:

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
"Doth God exact day labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

With the Restoration (1660) came disaster to the blind Puritan
poet, who had written too harshly against Charles I to be forgiven
by Charles II. He was forced to hide; his property was confiscated;
his works were burned in public by the hangman; had not his fame as
a writer raised up powerful friends, he would have gone to the
scaffold when Cromwell's bones were taken from the grave and hanged
in impotent revenge. He was finally allowed to settle in a modest
house, and to be in peace so long as he remained in obscurity. So
the pen was silenced that had long been a scourge to the enemies of
England.

His Loneliness

His home life for the remainder of his years impresses us by its
loneliness and grandeur. He who had delighted as a poet in the
English country, and more delighted as a Puritan in the fierce
struggle for liberty, was now confined to a small house, going from
study to porch, and finding both in equal darkness. He who had
roamed as a master through the wide fields of literature was now
dependent on a chance reader. His soul also was afflicted by the
apparent loss of all that Puritanism had so hardly won, by the
degradation of his country, by family troubles; for his daughters
often rebelled at the task of taking his dictation, and left him
helpless. Saddest of all, there was no love in the house, for with
all his genius Milton could not inspire affection in his own
people; nor does he ever reach the heart of his readers.

His Masterpiece

In the midst of such scenes, denied the pleasure of hope, Milton
seems to have lived largely in his memories. He took up his early
dream of an immortal epic, lived with it seven years in seclusion,
and the result was Paradise Lost. This epic is generally
considered the finest fruit of Milton's genius, but there are two
other poems that have a more personal and human significance. In
the morning of his life he had written Comus, and the poem
is a reflection of a noble youth whose way lies open and smiling
before him. Almost forty years later, or just before his death in
1674, he wrote Samson Agonistes, and in this tragedy of a
blind giant, bound, captive, but unconquerable, we have a picture
of the agony and moral grandeur of the poet who takes leave of
life:

I feel my genial spirits droop, ...
My race of glory run, and race of shame;
And I shall shortly be with them that rest. [1]

[Footnote [1]: From Milton's Samson. For the comparison we
are indebted to Henry Reed, Lectures on English Literature
(1863), p. 223.]

The Early Poems

Milton's first notable poem, written in college days, was
the "Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity," a chant of victory and
praise such as Pindar might have written had he known the meaning of
Christmas. In this boyish work one may find the dominant characteristic of
all Milton's poetry; namely, a blending of learning with piety, a devotion
of all the treasures of classic culture to the service of religion.

Among the earliest of the Horton poems (so-called because they were written
in the country-place of that name) are "L'Allegro" and "Il Penseroso," two
of the most widely quoted works in our literature. They should be read in
order to understand what people have admired for nearly three hundred
years, if not for their own beauty. "L'Allegro" (from the Italian, meaning
"the cheerful man") is the poetic expression of a happy state of mind, and
"Il Penseroso" [Footnote: The name is generally translated into
"melancholy," but the latter term is now commonly associated with sorrow or
disease. To Milton "melancholy" meant "pensiveness." In writing "Il
Penseroso" he was probably influenced by a famous book, Burton's Anatomy
of Melancholy, which appeared in 1621 and was very widely read.] of a
quiet, thoughtful mood that verges upon sadness, like the mood that follows
good music. Both poems are largely inspired by nature, and seem to have
been composed out of doors, one in the morning and the other in the evening
twilight.

The Masque of Comus

Comus (1634), another of the Horton poems, is to many readers the
most interesting of Milton's works. In form it is a masque, that is, a
dramatic poem intended to be staged to the accompaniment of music; in
execution it is the most perfect of all such poems inspired by the
Elizabethan love of pageants. We may regard it, therefore, as a late echo
of the Elizabethan drama, which, like many another echo, is sweeter though
fainter than the original. It was performed at Ludlow Castle, before the
Earl of Bridgewater, and was suggested by an accident to the Earl's
children, a simple accident, in which Milton saw the possibility of
"turning the common dust of opportunity to gold."

The story is that of a girl who becomes separated from her brothers
in a wood, and is soon lost. The magician Comus [Footnote: In
mythology Comus, the god of revelry, was represented as the son of
Dionysus (Bacchus, god of wine), and the witch Circe. In Greek
poetry Comus is the leader of any gay band of satyrs or dancers.
Milton's masque of Comus was influenced by a similar story
in Peele's Old Wives' Tale, by Spenser's "Palace of
Pleasure" in The Faery Queen (see above "Sir Guyon" in
Chapter IV), and by Homer's story of the witch Circe in the
Odyssey.] appears with his band of revelers, and tries to
bewitch the girl, to make her like one of his own brutish
followers. She is protected by her own purity, is watched over by
the Attendant Spirit, and finally rescued by her brothers. The
story is somewhat like that of the old ballad of "The Children in
the Wood," but it is here transformed into a kind of morality play.

Comus and the Tempest

In this masque may everywhere be seen the influence of Milton's
predecessors and the stamp of his own independence; his Puritan spirit
also, which must add a moral to the old pagan tales. Thus, Miranda
wandering about the enchanted isle (in Shakespeare's The Tempest)
hears strange, harmonious echoes, to which Caliban gives expression:

The isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices,
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.

The bewildered girl in Comus also hears mysterious voices, and has
glimpses of a world not her own; but, like Sir Guyon of The Faery
Queen, she is on moral guard against all such deceptions:

A thousand phantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men's names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
These thoughts may startle well but not astound
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended
By a strong-siding champion, Conscience.

Again, in The Tempest we meet "the frisky spirit" Ariel, who sings
of his coming freedom from Prospero's service:

Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On a bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily:
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

The Attendant Spirit in Comus has something of Ariel's gayety, but
his joy is deeper-seated; he serves not the magician Prospero but the
Almighty, and comes gladly to earth in fulfilment of the divine promise,
"He shall give His angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways."
When his work is done he vanishes, like Ariel, but with a song which shows
the difference between the Elizabethan, or Renaissance, conception of
sensuous beauty (that is, beauty which appeals to the physical senses) and
the Puritan's idea of moral beauty, which appeals to the soul:

Now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly or I can run
Quickly to the green earth's end,
Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the moon.
Mortals, that would follow me,
Love Virtue; she alone is free:
She can teach ye how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heaven itself would stoop to her.

Lycidas

Lycidas (1637), last of the Horton poems, is an elegy occasioned by
the death of one who had been Milton's fellow student at Cambridge. It was
an old college custom to celebrate important events by publishing a
collection of Latin or English poems, and Lycidas may be regarded as
Milton's wreath, which he offered to the memory of his classmate and to his
university. The poem is beautifully fashioned, and is greatly admired for
its classic form; but it is cold as any monument, without a touch of human
grief or sympathy. Probably few modern readers will care for it as they
care for Tennyson's In Memoriam, a less perfect elegy, but one into
which love enters as well as art. Other notable English elegies are the
Thyrsis of Matthew Arnold and the Adonais of Shelley.

Milton's Left Hand

This expression was used by Milton to designate certain
prose works written in the middle period of his life, at a time of turmoil
and danger. These works have magnificent passages which show the power and
the harmony of our English speech, but they are marred by other passages of
bitter raillery and invective. The most famous of all these works is the
noble plea called Areopagitica: [Footnote: From the Areopagus or
forum of Athens, the place of public appeal. This was the "Mars Hill" from
which St. Paul addressed the Athenians, as recorded in the Book of Acts.]
a Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing (1644).

There was a law in Milton's day forbidding the printing of any work until
it had been approved by the official Licenser of Books. Such a law may have
been beneficial at times, but during the seventeenth century it was another
instrument of tyranny, since no Licenser would allow anything to be printed
against his particular church or government. When Areopagitica was
written the Puritans of the Long Parliament were virtually rulers of
England, and Milton pleaded with his own party for the free expression of
every honest opinion, for liberty in all wholesome pleasures, and for
tolerance in religious matters. His stern confidence in truth, that she
will not be weakened but strengthened by attack, is summarized in the
famous sentence, "I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue."

Two interesting matters concerning Areopagitica are: first, that
this eloquent plea for the freedom of printing had to be issued in defiance
of law, without a license; and second, that Milton was himself, a few years
later, under Cromwell's iron government, a censor of the press.

The Sonnets

Milton's rare sonnets seem to belong to this middle period of strife,
though some of them were written earlier. Since Wyatt and Surrey had
brought the Italian sonnet to England this form of verse had been employed
to sing of love; but with Milton it became a heroic utterance, a trumpet
Wordsworth calls it, summoning men to virtue, to patriotism, to stern
action. The most personal of these sonnets are "On Having Arrived at the
Age of Twenty-three," "On his Blindness" and "To Cyriack Skinner"; the most
romantic is "To the Nightingale"; others that are especially noteworthy are
"On the Late Massacre," "On his Deceased Wife" [Footnote: This beautiful
sonnet was written to his second wife, not to Mary Powell.] and "To
Cromwell." The spirit of these sonnets, in contrast with those of
Elizabethan times, is finely expressed by Landor in the lines:

Few his words, but strong,
And sounding through all ages and all climes;
He caught the sonnet from the dainty hand
Of Love, who cried to lose it, and he gave the notes
To Glory.

Milton's Later Poetry

[Footnote: The three poems of Milton's later life
are Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained and Samson
Agonistes. The last-named has been referred to above under "His
Masterpiece". Paradise Regained contains some noble passages, but is
inferior to Paradise Lost, on which the poet's fame chiefly rests.]
It was in 1658, the year of Cromwell's death, when the political power of
Puritanism was tottering, that Milton in his blindness began to write
Paradise Lost. After stating his theme he begins his epic, as Virgil
began the Æneid, in the midst of the action; so that in reading his
first book it is well to have in mind an outline of the whole story, which
is as follows:

Plan of Paradise Lost

The scene opens in Heaven, and the time is before the creation of
the world. The archangel Lucifer rebels against the Almighty, and
gathers to his banner an immense company of the heavenly hosts, of
angels and flaming cherubim. A stupendous three days' battle
follows between rebel and loyal legions, the issue being in doubt
until the Son goes forth in his chariot of victory. Lucifer and his
rebels are defeated, and are hurled over the ramparts of Heaven.
Down, down through Chaos they fall "nine times the space that
measures day and night," until they reach the hollow vaults of
Hell.

In the second act (for Paradise Lost has some dramatic as
well as epic construction) we follow the creation of the earth in
the midst of the universe; and herein we have an echo of the old
belief that the earth was the center of the solar system. Adam and
Eve are formed to take in the Almighty's affection the place of the
fallen angels. They live happily in Paradise, watched over by
celestial guardians. Meanwhile Lucifer and his followers are
plotting revenge in Hell. They first boast valiantly, and talk of
mighty war; but the revenge finally degenerates into a base plan to
tempt Adam and Eve and win them over to the fallen hosts.

The third act shows Lucifer, now called Satan or the Adversary,
with his infernal peers in Pandemonium, plotting the ruin of the
world. He makes an astounding journey through Chaos, disguises
himself in various forms of bird or beast in order to watch Adam
and Eve, is detected by Ithuriel and the guardian angels, and is
driven away. Thereupon he haunts vast space, hiding in the shadow
of the earth until his chance comes, when he creeps back into Eden
by means of an underground river. Disguising himself as a serpent,
he meets Eve and tempts her with the fruit of a certain "tree of
knowledge," which she has been forbidden to touch. She eats the
fruit and shares it with Adam; then the pair are discovered in
their disobedience, and are banished from Paradise. [Footnote: In
the above outline we have arranged the events in the order in which
they are supposed to have occurred. Milton tells the story in a
somewhat confused way. The order of the twelve books of Paradise
Lost is not the natural or dramatic order of the story.]

Milton's Materials

It is evident from this outline that Milton uses material from two
different sources, one an ancient legend which Cædmon employed in his
Paraphrase, the other the Bible narrative of Creation. Though the latter is
but a small part of the epic, it is as a fixed center about which all other
interests are supposed to revolve. In reading Paradise Lost,
therefore, with its vast scenes and colossal figures, one should keep in
mind that every detail was planned by Milton to be closely related to his
central theme, which is the fall of man.

In using such diverse materials Milton met with difficulties, some of which
(the character of Lucifer, for example) were too great for his limited
dramatic powers. In Books I and II Lucifer is a magnificent figure, the
proudest in all literature, a rebel with something of celestial grandeur
about him:

"Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,"
Said then the lost Archangel, "this the seat
That we must change for Heaven? this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he
Who now is sovran can dispose and bid
What shall be right: farthest from him is best,
Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,
Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail,
Infernal world! and thou, profoundest Hell,
Receive thy new possessor, one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence;
Here we may reign secure; and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven."

In other books of Paradise Lost the same character appears not as
the heroic rebel but as the sneaking "father of lies," all his grandeur
gone, creeping as a snake into Paradise or sitting in the form of an ugly
toad "squat at Eve's ear," whispering petty deceits to a woman while she
sleeps. It is probable that Milton meant to show here the moral results of
rebellion, but there is little in his poem to explain the sudden degeneracy
from Lucifer to Satan.

Matter and Manner

The reader will note, also, the strong contrast between Milton's matter and
his manner. His matter is largely mythical, and the myth is not beautiful
or even interesting, but childish for the most part and frequently
grotesque, as when cannon are used in the battle of the angels, or when the
Almighty makes plans,

Lest unawares we lose
This our high place, our sanctuary, our hill.

Indeed, all Milton's celestial figures, with the exception of the original
Lucifer, are as banal as those of the old miracle plays; and his Adam and
Eve are dull, wooden figures that serve merely to voice the poet's theology
or moral sentiments.

In contrast with this unattractive matter, Milton's manner is always and
unmistakably "the grand manner." His imagination is lofty, his diction
noble, and the epic of Paradise Lost is so filled with memorable
lines, with gorgeous descriptions, with passages of unexampled majesty or
harmony or eloquence, that the crude material which he injects into the
Bible narrative is lost sight of in our wonder at his superb style.

The Quality of Milton

If it be asked, What is Milton's adjective? the word
"sublime" rises to the lips as the best expression of his style. This word
(from the Latin sublimis, meaning "exalted above the ordinary") is
hard to define, but may be illustrated from one's familiar experience.

You stand on a hilltop overlooking a mighty landscape on which the
new snow has just fallen: the forest bending beneath its soft
burden, the fields all white and still, the air scintillating with
light and color, the whole world so clean and pure that it seems as
if God had blotted out its imperfections and adorned it for his own
pleasure. That is a sublime spectacle, and the soul of man is
exalted as he looks upon it. Or here in your own village you see a
woman who enters a room where a child is stricken with a deadly and
contagious disease. She immolates herself for the suffering one,
cares for him and saves him, then lays down her own life. That is a
sublime act. Or you hear of a young patriot captured and hanged by
the enemy, and as they lead him forth to death he says, "I regret
that I have but one life to give to my country." That is a sublime
expression, and the feeling in your heart as you hear it is one of
moral sublimity.

Sublimity

The writer who lifts our thought and feeling above their ordinary level,
who gives us an impression of outward grandeur or of moral exaltation, is a
sublime writer, has a sublime style; and Milton more than any other poet
deserves the adjective. His scenes are immeasurable; mountain, sea and
forest are but his playthings; his imagination hesitates not to paint
Chaos, Heaven, Hell, the widespread Universe in which our world hangs like
a pendant star and across which stretches the Milky Way:

A broad and ample road, whose dust is gold,
And pavement stars.

No other poet could find suitable words for such vast themes, but Milton
never falters. Read the assembly of the fallen hosts before Lucifer in Book
I of Paradise Lost, or the opening of Hellgates in Book II, or the
invocation to light in Book III, or Satan's invocation to the sun in Book
IV, or the morning hymn of Adam and Eve in Book V; or open Paradise
Lost anywhere, and you shall soon find some passage which, by the
grandeur of its scene or by the exalted feeling of the poet as he describes
it, awakens in you the feeling of sublimity.

Harmony

The harmony of Milton's verse is its second notable quality. Many of our
poets use blank verse, as many other people walk, as if they had no sense
of rhythm within them; but Milton, by reason of his long study and practice
of music, seems to be always writing to melody. In consequence it is easy
to read his most prolix passages, as it is easy to walk over almost any
kind of ground if one but keeps step to outward or inward music. Not only
is Milton's verse stately and melodious, but he is a perfect master of
words, choosing them for their sound as well as for their sense, as a
musician chooses different instruments to express different emotions. Note
these contrasting descriptions of so simple a matter as the opening of
gates:

Heaven opened wide
Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound,
On golden hinges moving. On a sudden open fly
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound
Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder.

In dealing with a poet of such magnificent qualities one should be wary of
criticism. That Milton's poetry has little human interest, no humor, and
plenty of faults, may be granted. His Paradise Lost especially is
overcrowded with mere learning or pedantry in one place and with pompous
commonplaces in another. But such faults appear trivial, unworthy of
mention in the presence of a poem that is as a storehouse from which the
authors and statesmen of three hundred years have drawn their choicest
images and expressions. It stands forever as our supreme example of
sublimity and harmony,--that sublimity which reflects the human spirit
standing awed and reverent before the grandeur of the universe; that
harmony of expression at which every great poet aims and which Milton
attained in such measure that he is called the organ-voice of England.